Through the Lens
by The Cuboid
Summary: How could he save the world? With a camera and a pen? Arthur thought he was laughable but he will prove that they are able to do something even politics cannot. USUK, slight RusChu, SpaMano and PruAus in later chapters. Human AU. WW2
1. Prologue

**Summer 1935**

 **Buffalo**

Alfred F Jones relished himself in the tranquility of the darkroom. Was he to be called eerie if he enjoyed the suffocating darkness? Alfred set the timer and waited patiently for the chemicals to do their work on the negatives. He thought long and hard about his future, pleasing himself with visions.

Alfred was interested of the journalist's line of work. How happy he shall be to report daily to the town of Buffalo, then, every citizen would recognize his name. He would be praised for his honest, informed reports which had nice pictures to complement them.

And today, Alfred decided, was the time to seek permission from his family. Alfred came from an old elite family of the town Buffalo. As a single child, the family had a thumb over his life. Especially his Grampa, Victor Jones. Elite by birth, the old men had thought their live to be privileged and needed achievements to prove their difference. His Grampa was a man who insisted that their lives should be grand and accomplished, and the sole purpose for this is to be a constant reminder to of their superiority. It was the sole mindset, Alfred thought, which molded his Grampa's principle.

Despite Victor's snobbish façade, Alfred loved his Grampa from the bottom of his heart. The old man spoiled the child Alfred tremendously, and until he realized how he treated those of the lower classes, Alfred couldn't bring himself to hate his grandfather no matter how reality stung. Though, Alfred no longer worshiped and respected the old man as he used to. Instead, his new role model was his mother, Camellia, a journalist, the very person who inspired him to follow the career. As Camellia's father was once their family chauffer, and that she came from a modest background, his parents' marriage invoked strong opposition from Victor. The couple somehow gained a final approval. Alfred wondered if it was his mother's charm that did the work.

Mrs Jones, Camellia, was an independent women, she took part in local politics and was a feminist, an active suffragist. It was her wits and that won Alfred's father heart rather than beauty. Someday, Alfred hoped to marry a woman like his mother, seducing him with cleverness and an independent spirit. He wondered if he can ever find his Mrs Right with the high standards he set.

Alfred did not need to busy himself with the matter of a girl now for he was occupied enough. His life was distracted mainly by journalism, photography, his studies and volunteer work.

Alfred was a bright student in his school despite everyone thought otherwise. He was ahead in his class in both science and modern language, he was well equipped with knowledge of books much to his teachers surprise. But, Alfred was slow on the uptake and had bad judge of the atmosphere, though, that did not stop others from being charmed by his casual attitude in contrast of his family background and the strong sense of justice that was the greatest attribute of his character.

Occasionally, Alfred dedicated his time to help the poor and sick. His help ranged from offering help at the metal factory, helping the illiterate to write letters, paying for the doctor's fee, taking family portraits of those who cannot afford them... He had proven himself to be a part of the common community.

People were discreet enough not to tell his secrets, knowing that his elite family did not like him to socialize with inferior classes. Of course, it was not easy in reality, Buffalo was a small town and his elite friends kept track of his activities. Alfred always found himself in trouble when Victor Jones happened to hear a rumour or two. But, it was not sufficient to stop him from doing what he thought was right.

Alfred was then trying to cross the line again, for that morning, he had plans to tell his grandfather about his ambition.

He needed a boost of confidence regarding the reveal, and sought support from Camellia beforehand. He rehearsed possible arguments and had prepared a trump card.

Alfred woke up early in the state soldiers have when they ready themselves for battle, he even felt the loud thumping of his heart as he walked to the bathroom. With a glance at the window, Alfred saw the sun peeking from the horizon, but it was still too early before their breakfast. Breakfast was served exactly at eight.

Alfred had chosen the date of that day because his father, Carter Jones will not be present. Carter Jones was away to Berlin, Germany as a delegate. He knew more and less that his father will share Victor Jones's view if he told them he wanted to be a Journalist. His father wanted him to take up politics like he did.

"You need to set your sights higher son."

Alfred mimicked his father's solemn and deep voice as he said that.

Alfred decided politics was not the only way to help his country. He believed words carried an equal weight as political power did. Sure he was allured by the prospects of a political career, but he too acknowledges the dark side of the elaborate theatrical play. Alfred had a secret fear of being corrupted by powerful figures like everyone else in that circle was. His father was an example and Alfred gladly took it. He preferred to be called a head-strong fool instead of joining his father in the political world.

The timer rang and Arthur carried out the next steps in developing the negatives. Alfred heard a knock at the door.

He recognized the familiar knock. "Alfred. May I come in?" It was his mother's voice.

"Please do, ma." Alfred wanted to show his mother the photos.

The darkroom was his mother's. Carter Jones readied it for her to develop and print her photos for her magazines. When Alfred was fifteen, he was honoured to be the first person allowed the privilege to enter and use this room as he pleases. Not that his Grampa or father had any reason use the room. But it was still an honour he cherished.

He listened hard when his mother taught him about the delicate process of handling the film or when she lectured him about watching the temperature of the chemicals. Alfred was not someone who did things carefully. He messed up for the first few tries, unknown to his mother, and he still refuse to reveal. But after persistent efforts, Alfred mastered the art of it. He indulged in his mother's praise. By the age of eighteen, Alfred had long since familiar to the procedure, his photos were sharp and clear. He was proud to declare he was one of the few in his school's literature club that can produce a photo without help from their advisor, a French teacher named Francis.

"These are nice. I can see your improvement." Alfred's mother selected a few from the black and white photos.

"Thanks ma."

"You will make a great journalist." Camille's natural tone suggested none of the importance her reassurance was to Alfred.

"Well, there's still Grampa." Alfred managed to mutter while his brain was in a state of fleeting euphoria. "And father too."

"I believe your abilities to persuade the old dear." Camille referred to her father in law fondly. "You're his favourite.

"Uh. Sure." Alfred was anything but sure.

Camille adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose. She was prone to do that when she wanted to show him her support on something. Alfred realized how tall he had grown when his mother struggled to reach his face. He smiled and bent down so she could do so easier.

"Love you ma." He heard himself say.

* * *

"Good morning, Grampa," Alfred said as casually as he could, hoping that his voice did not shake under the anticipation.

"Mornin' my boy." Victor Jones hinted nothing about a shaky voice.

"Good morning father."

"You too Cam, dear."

Alfred's heart was beating heart against his chest when he reached for his seat. Their familiar exchanges did not calm him at all, in fact he felt more nervous when he was reminded that he was to do something out of the usual.

"I say, Alfred, why aren't you like your peeps? Vargas said you did not attend his sons' party, again. Young Feliciano was very upset." The Vargas was a respectable family and the Vargas twins were Alfred closest friend.

Dating three generations back, the great grandfather of the Vargas twins, an Italian immigrant, had started an olive oil business in the Promised Land. The Vargas had close ties with the Jones.

"Well, something came up."

"You always say that boy. I wonder why." Victor chuckled lightly but it was without malice. Alfred thanked Victor's sense of humour.

Victor asked the Negro maid, Martha for the morning paper. Camille raised an eyebrow at Alfred knowingly and he took the cue.

"Grampa what's for the front page?" Alfred inquired innocently. Alfred waited for his turn for the news on most days, but he did not wanted stall any longer.

"I am sensing something here. What are you up to?"

"Nothing."

Camille expression stirred at his weak justification despite her accustomed neutral mask to even the most important matters. Alfred was somehow glad that his mother was capable to worry this much on behalf of him.

The trump card was out. It was a sink or swim situation.

* * *

Five days ago, Alfred submitted an article on an interview as related to a demonstration of the metal factory workers. They raised signboards and shouted slogans as they marched on the street in protest of their Russian boss, Ivan Braginski. They demanded a raise but was refused because Ivan needed money to mend his loss suffered in the Great Depression.

The Braginski family is a Russian gangster of sorts. They owned some of the red light districts in downtown New York, rumored bootleggers who imported wine during Prohibition, and they would resort to violence if circumstances did not suit them

Alfred, having heard from Feliciano, knew of the meeting between the twins' grandfather, Roma Vargas, and Ivan Braginski. Roma Vargas was a retired businessman who was also a respected veteran of the workers' union, and obviously, he intended to argue the workers' right with Braginski.

Alfred stated his interest of an interview and Roma Vargas accepted him as a witness for their discussion. He gave permission for Alfred to take photos for the occasion too as long as the other side would not mind.

"Boy, I will ferret that tyrant's wrongdoing out so you can have a great time writing your article."

"You seemed confident sir." Alfred blurted but regretted as he had shown his doubt of the old man.

Ivan Braginski was notorious for his silent threats and ruthlessness. As if he would give in from a little pressure from the Union.

"Don't worry boy. I believed in justice." It was a reassuring reply.

Alfred liked Roma instantly. It was not surprising to see the Vargas's olive business prosper under a man with such charisma.

Ivan was a member of the Yatch Club. Alfred thought of it as another club the elites prided themselves to be member of. He wondered how Ivan got his membership.

"Ivan, this is the Jones's boy, Alfred. Alfred, Ivan Braginski."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vargas. Alfred Jones." Ivan's English was thickly accented, signifying his Russian ancestry. His voice was unexpectedly soft and polite, but it failed to hide the cold and impassionate attitude.

Both parties shook hands. Alfred was surprised to get a handshake too. Ivan grasps was powerful and intimating. Alfred disliked his cold demeanor and courtesy he regarded them with.

"Pleasure's mine." Roma was being distinctly curt.

They entered the dining room of the club. Ivan led them to a table with a view of the beach. A Chinese waiter took their orders.

"Is that all sirs?"

"Yes thank you, Yao." Braginski was fast to reply.

Alfred noted that Ivan knew the waiter's name. He must dine here more often than he thought.

Alfred helped himself with his steak. He clasped the juicy meat between the round German bread from the basket on the table, which he cut into two halves with the knife. In addition to the flavour, Alfred grabbed the pepper bottle and shook its contents, then, he tucked tomatoes and cabbage on his plate between the bread.

"You have an unusual way of eating young man," commented Roma.

"Convenient sir."

"Might as well have a sandwich."

Alfred watched as the two important figures ate their lunch, Ivan had a borsch and Roma ordered spaghetti. When the plates are empty, the Chinese waiter called Yao cleared the table and brought out Roma's wine and Ivan's vodka.

Alfred listened closely to how Roma raised his point with the ill effects of a strike, which will eventually happen if the workers didn't get enough payment. He did not however, appeal to Ivan by telling how the workers too, suffered from the Great Depression as Alfred expected. He guessed the tactic would not work on the uncompassionate Russian. Roma instead, advised him on the matter practically. He proposed an offer to raise the payment by half the sum the workers requested. Alfred thought the tactic was simple but wise, Roma did not ask his opponent to back down but won something from it.

Alfred studied the Ivan's face. He was indifferent and even looked distracted. Alfred had felt angry enough to punch at the Russian's protruding nose but resisted the notion.

The problem came to a satisfactory disclosure as Ivan accepted the proposal. Alfred felt proud after looking at the long notes he took. He asked a photo and Ivan agreed.

Alfred spent the remaining day writing and improvising his article, printing the photos. Then he submitted them to a local newspaper, _Buffalo Dailies,_ by handling them to his teacher, Francis Bunnofey who was a close friend to the chief editor.

"Why. The demonstration is a hot topic. Nice to have some insight about it." Francis winked. "I will make sure it works its way to the front page."

* * *

"Why there's nothing interesting on the front page."

"Are you sure Grampa."

"It's a movie star's scandal for god sake. Tell me if I mistook you your meaning of interesting,"

"No. Grampa. You didn't." The situation was getting awkward.

Maybe he was expecting too much. Even though it was an interview of two prominent local figures, the editor might think it did not pique people's interest enough. He had predicted this to happen. After all, Francis was just attempting on a flatter like he always did.

"Try the politics section" he suggested.

"President's Whitehouse party guests, British appeasing policies, rising Facist. Well, there's nothing much here."

Alfred felt a sudden disappointment. He retreated to his room while struggling to look passive. When he thought of it, his plan was an utter joke.

"Alfred." Camille Jones caught up on him.

"Hey ma. I messed up."

"I am sorry about it."

"I know ma. I am not good enough. "

"It's not your fault Alfred." Camille paused as if she had something to say but was hesitating about it.

"I just thought he would finally recognize my abilities if I published that article." Alfred ignored his mother consolation and was in a state of self deprecation.

"Alfred listend to me."

"I am tired ma'. Give it a rest."

"Alfred there is something that I feel bad to tell you about. But I guess this left me no choice." Camille closed her eyes, biting at her thick lips, breathing hitched. "I had long since suspected father to pull some strings behind your back."

"What?" Alfred landed worked on the interpretation, he felt an unquestionable rage dawning.

"He knew, Alfred. He told the editors not to publish any articles by you."Camille voice was hurt, she nodded her head as to say it was a fact she confirmed but wanted to deny.

"I—"Alfred was struck speechless. How could his grandfather do that to him? "Journalism is a great, respectable job. I don't know why he opposes to it."

Alfred knew. He was not stupid. His Grampa wanted him to be a politician like he and his father did. He felt sour of the unfairness. He felt sour of how Grampa feigned ignorance of what he really wanted, taking further steps to suppress them, as if his dreams will eventually be forgotten if he persisted.

Camille said: "Give me time to talk him out of it."

For that moment, Alfred felt that his mother was the only person who understood him.

"Thank you ma." He didn't want to be angry in front of his mother. Camille heard the dismissal tone in his voice. "Okay. I will leave you to think about it. Don't do anything stupid will you."

"Kay ma."

Camille left.


	2. Crag

Alfred took his their pitbull terrier, Ruddy for an evening walk. It was recognized that Rover was his mother's even though the previous owner, a dog breeder, was an acquaintance of his Grampa. Victor Jones took no interest in rearing the pet, though, played with the terrier occasionally. But it was his mother who trained the dog to be as tame as it was.

Ruddy was a clever dog, and would not run away if Alfred left him. So, he let it wander alone on the beach, seeing no reason for the dog to drown itself.

Alfred came to the bottom of a crag and climbed up the dangerous rocks. He was sure that his clothes were soiled, hands sore, but he need a moment of peace and on the crag was where he could get it. Whenever he felt like ruminating and reflecting his thoughts, he would sit on a particular boulder on the crag, a special spot for re-evaluating his actions.

As Alfred gave himself a last push to the top, he saw the back of a stranger. He felt puzzled but curious. It took great effort, even for Alfred who was physically stronger than those of his age, to climb up there. How the skinny back managed to lift himself up the rocks was a total mystery to him.

It was rare to see someone there, in fact in had never been anyone at all. Alfred decided to observe the stranger from a distance.

The stranger's spiky blond hair was tainted red by the sinking sun, Alfred turned to walk at the sides so he could see the stranger's face. The stranger's eyes were a shock of green and most surprising of all was the bizarre eyebrows above them that was knotting themselves upwards, molding his expression into a worrying frown. Captivated by the mysterious scowl, Alfred studied the stranger's feature further and noticed for the first time how beautiful the perfectly carved face was. The young stranger, Alfred deduced, was about his age. He framed the stranger with his fingers and longed for his camera.

A bark sounded, Alfred was upset that the stranger was no longer in the midst of a daze. Green pupils locked onto his blue.

"Wha—" For unknown reason, a face of recognition came over the stranger's face. "Oh it's you Jones."

Did he give his name away? Apparently not. "Sorry, Do I know you?"

Without hesitating, the stranger gave his name away in a British accent. "Arthur Kirkland. Does that ring a bell?"

Arthur struggled to recall, spelling the name again and again in his mind, it sounded familiar, but he failed to recall a memory of Arthur himself.

"Sorry."

"No offense, but you are a stupid sod."

Alfred took note of the British slang.

Arthur was glaring daggers. Alfred felt himself stifling laughter from his lips at Arthur Kirkland immature animosity, regardless of the insult.

"Sorry." He apologized once again. It was his third.

"Then act like it. Keep that stupid grin off your face would ya?"

' _I'm grinning?'_

Alfred wanted to focus the task of climbing down from the dangerous height but he his concentration failed him as it was shifted on Arthur, who was surprisingly mobile and acrobatic, with his smaller stature leaped down from one rock to the other with apparent ease. A good judgement, Alfred suspected was also involved seeing how Arthur formed his pathway in the complicated pattern of protruding rocks.

Suddenly Alfred's right foot slipped on the moss growing on the rocks. Quick agility and reaction saved him before falling on the sandy beach from the great height. He felt secured enough to inquire the droning questions when his feet touched the sandy ground.

"So how did we meet?" Alfred asked.

"I was a guest of your house, wasn't I?" Intrigued, Alfred overlooked the tone of mockery of the rhetorical questions.

"When?"

"Six years ago. You were twelve."

"Are we of the same age?" Arthur was shorter than he was but he cannot predict his age basing on height alone.

"I am actually two years older."

Alfred calculated a twenty.

"So, uh. Are you still in school or had started to work?"

"I am in Cambridge." There was a resounding pride in Arthur's word.

"What is a Cambridge student doing here?"

"To be your guest."

"We have guests?"

"Didn't your Grampa tell you? That's typical of the old Jones. You mind if I accompany you back to the house?"

Arthur expressed a deep familiarity of his family. Alfred mind struggled to keep up with one reveal after the other. He was not the best when it came to memories, but it was unlikely that he forgot someone that close to him. He felt his head spinning from the effort.

"Ruddy. Come 'ere."

The Jones's pitbull terrier rushed to Alfred's side when the name was called. Alfred noted how the dog's leg was weakening by age. A pitbull terrier life expectancy is twelve years and the old boy was already ten. It sat automatically when it reached the young master side.

"Hey Ruddy." Arthur called. The dog turned in recognition of the two syllables. "Paws," he commanded with a sense of professionalism, emphasizing the 'aws' sternly like experienced trainers did.

"You know the old fella'?" Alfred assumed that Arthur met the dog when he was a guest.

"You kidding? I raised him since he was a pup."

Alfred was flabbergasted.

"You breed dogs?"

Alfred had never doubted the explanation about the dog breeder. Did he remember that wrong? Maybe he jumbled the facts up.

"Yes and no. My uncle took that up as a hobby. I tried my hands on a few and Ruddy was one of my pack."

"Your uncle?"

"He is from the British parliament."

Then it all connects, the house of Victor Jones was once a place to accommodate political visitors from aboard. Alfred remembered how uneasy he felt as a child when European visitors, who spoke a different tongue, were living under the same roof with his family. It was more frustrating to be laughed by his Grampa, saying he was too young to learn their languages yet. It was one of the reasons Alfred took modern language seriously at school, to the point he exceeded those in his class. He painstakingly studied German, French and Italian to impress his Grampa's guest, the innocent days when he was still blind to his Grampa faults.

Alfred was uncharacteristically silent all the way back home, drown in nostalgic memories. He recalled the first time he picked up Struwwelpete, recalling the exaggerated German rhymes.

When the children gentle be,  
Then the Christchild they shall see;  
If they eat their soup and yet  
Still their bread they don't forget,  
Handle silently their toys,  
Taking pains to make no noise,  
And when a pleasure-walk is planned,  
Let Mother lead them by the hand,  
For every blessing they may look,  
And get, besides, a Picture Book.

It was dark when he finally reached home, Arthur followed at one side, Ruddy between them. When he was returning Ruddy to his kennel, the Negro maid took out the Ruddy's feeding bowl.

"Alfie, dinner's ready. You better wash your hands." The maid was once his nanny and she could not grow out of the habit of using his pet name.

"Martha I'm not a kid anymore. I know how to spell personal hygiene."

Arthur laughed.

* * *

"I see you have met our guest." Victor Jones tone implied no surprise.

"Hello again, Mr. Victor Jones." Arthur greeted.

"Arthur Kirkland. I had been a long time I say. Five? No, six years? Good to see you all grown up."

"It's six sir. Thank you sir." Alfred noticed the grace in Arthur's gesture, he compared the difference with most of their younger guests who stifled when they were in presence of his Grampa. Arthur did not look tenser than he was in the company of Alfred himself.

Alfred wanted to whistle but suppressed the urge for it was extremely rude. He should think twice when picking up these habits.

A man who resembled Arthur materialized behind Victor. Alfred assumed him to be Arthur's uncle.

The uncle had unkempt hair like Arthur but it was auburn instead of blond, they shared the same eyes, the same bizarrely thick eyebrows which Alfred amused himself by thinking of the miracles of genes.

Victor introduced the man as Allistor Kirkland. Allistor Kirkland face was without the delicateness of Arthur's, it was a more mature version and possesses a powerful chin.

"Hello young Jones." His breath smelled of whisky. Alfred thought he must have been drinking with Grampa.

Their dinner was prepared by Martha and her daughter, they were the sole permanent servant of their household besides an old gardener. He could see the labor she went through for the guests, these meals usually took days to plan and prepare, and no one expected the lady of the house, Camille, to bother herself with these chores.

No wonder she looked strained, thought Alfred. He would thank her if he had the chance.

Alfred loved Martha lamb chops and eyed Arthur to try some. Sitting at the opposite side, Alfred had a clear view of him and noted that there was a little food on the guest's plate; in contrast, he tried as many dishes he could stuff himself with. Alfred was a member of the boxing club in town, he was not afraid to put on a weight as he could burn the extra calories during trainings.

His Grampa and father, agreed to let him box. Their condition, as long as he get himself hurt, they will ban him from it. He was careful with his matches and it was conventional that the matches to be supervised by a volunteering referee, his choice of opponents was limited to his classmates or those he knew well. He avoided unnecessary challenges from strangers. However, with his strong sense of justice, he had once joined a scuffle to stop the bullies who was tormenting the younger boys, ending with a bruised eye and swollen wounds. Luckily, the older two men forgave him when they heard his reason.

"Arthur my boy, eat more will ya? The food's great." Allistor too, noticed the meager proportions on Arthur's plate.

"I'm not hungry." He shrugged, looking annoyed.

"Well, I did starve myself like that. Try the lamb chops." Alfred suggested, trying to tease him.

"Alfred. Don't be rude," warned Camellia.  
Under her disapproving look, Alfred felt himself blush.

' _Why the hell did I say that?'_

"He's right Mrs. Jones. Thanks Alfred." Arthur came to his rescue. Alfred felt unspecified exhilaration mingling with the usual gratitude.

After their exchange, Allistor Kirkland started an abrupt conversation with Victor.

"Victor how are things going on?"

"You have heard. They stopped the Prohibition act two years ago. I am grateful for the New Deal."

"Ah." Allistor gave a deliberate smile. "Men can't go without drinking."

"Haha. I can't picture you to be in my position." Victor said with much witticism.

"I would have move out of the States if I were you. Bless Franklin." Allistor embraced the joke with the same humour.

"Yeah. He's a great choice. Bold to act. That's why everyone voted for him." Victor sounded cheerful and distressed at the same time.

"You sound troubled my friend."

"The president sent some letters to this old and retired senator, looking for advice."

"And what grants you that honour?"

"I'm sure you have heard about the Liberty League." Victor laughed humorously. "Misleading name. There's no liberty about them."

Arthur sorted the information in his head. He had no interest in politics whatsoever but since he aspired to be a journalists, attention was paid to even the dullest stories on the newspaper or magazines. Therefore, he was not ignorant to the conversation as he had followed news of Franklin Roosevelt from his election to his methods of improving the economy, the New Deal. He made selling beer legal as promised of his speech, which had won the votes over incumbent President Herbert, he stabilize the financial problem of banks, he halted agricultural surpluses. The Liberty League was a right-wing group opposing the New Deal.

"And your reply was?"

"That's why I sound trouble Allistor."

"Conservatives are the root of trouble in every country's government."

"If my poor memory serves right, you are in the liberal party, aren't you?"

"Yes. Tough time for us. Britain favors appeasing Hitler." Allistor finished the whisky in his cup and reached out for more. "That German bastard breeched the Versailles Treaty and sent troops. But what did our bloody government do about it? Nothing!"

Camille showed signs of a grimace. She did not tolerate such vulgar language even from guests. Allistor look drunk and was bound to spout more profanity. She excused herself from the dining table by indicating she needed to finish a manuscript.

"I bet Alfred is tired too, Father."

When Alfred was about to follow his mother, he glanced at Arthur who sat opposite to him. Arthur was deeply absorbed in then discussions, his face was neutral but rays of fascination leaked from his eyes.

All I received was tiresome scowls, thought Alfred. He longed that attention to be directed to himself.

' _So politics interests him.'_

Out of a petty retaliation on unsatisfying treatment, Alfred decided to stay.

* * *

"I worry more about the spread communism. It's a strange idea that Lennin put into people's head. Even the great United States had her people at strike." Victor raised his glass in a gesture of helplessness.

Alfred had a vague knowledge of relations and politics of foreign countries from information gathered during mealtimes when his father and Grampa talked.

"Communism is not of my concern. We have some Fascist supporters marching in the streets. Look at the unrest they cause. But still, the conservative parties warned me not to bother about them!" Allistor was getting more and more heated in sharing his political views.

Arthur remained silent.

Feeling that it was a chance to impress, Alfred said: "Fascism is a filled with alluring promises, sure, but why can't anyone look past that lie?"

Victor turned to look at him with amusement, it was the first that his grandson ever voiced opinions on political matters. He would still be smiling even if Alfred raised the most unimportant question.

Allistor went to another passionate rant, directing the rage on the rising of British Fascist, the Blackshirts. When he talked enough, he came to the problem of Fascism in Germany.

"Persecuting Jews and killing Communists. Look at all that shit Hitler fed them. How could the Germans be so blind about it?"

Alfred felt a thrill to see that had provoked Arthur to speak.

' _Finally.'_

"They are not blind uncle. Hitler uses threats and violence so innocents obey them like tamed sheep. They were forced to comply." Alfred, for the moment, felt a sting from the tone. It was more upsetting than Ivan Braginski's cold courteousness. "We were the culprits who help the rise of fascism, for it was us who wagered our blaming fingers on Germany for the Great War. This is their revenge."

Alfred felt a sudden hurt because he was indirectly blaming the Germans for Fascism. Arthur strongly opposed to his outlook with ration .

The two older men and Alfred did not speak, Arthur continued. "Not all Germans are willing to be tamed. I have a Germanic friend. He told me about courageous souls who are fighting the tyrant rule of Fascism. They will suffer greatly to do so. What's our right to complain compared to those silent deeds?" Arthur's voice was flat and calm, unlike his uncle who relay his views with vigor.

Alfred had forgotten about his hate towards Germany, he forgot the condemnation of Arthur for doing so. All he could think of is black and white images of disfigured corpses of dead soldiers. To him is war is suffering, suffering was snowy impressions of these photographs. He wanted to reach out helping hands to these people-men, women, infant.

 _Is this what's now happening in Germany? In the precise moment of this discussion?_

 _Can I help them? They say politics. Really? Is it the only option?_

"Dispassionate arguments are overrated nowadays." Allistor said but there was no anger in his voice.

Alfred looked at Allistor, he was strangely bemused, green eyes twinkled with pride. Victor, on the other hand was in the midst of thinking. Alfred guessed he must envy Allistor for his nephew, the wise politician in training, unlike the unwilling grandson.

The clock struck ten.

* * *

Alfred was instructed to show to their rooms, he took a turn to the left wing of the house where the guests' bedrooms were. The pair of new arrivals followed behind, deep in conversation, heavy bags in hands. Martha and her daughter were supposed to carry the load, but the two English gentlemen, true to their nature, insisted in doing it themselves. So, three men separated the baggage between themselves.

Alfred in the meantime, thought about the conversation. It was a queer night indeed. The thought of following his father's step did not seem to be as distant as it was before, no matter he himself wanted to deny it.

How did giving an opinion change his mindset so much? Had he found the joy to be listened and answered? But it was Arthur's negative reception that he received.

Alfred assumed that he was just comforting himself because of the failure this morning, and that his love for journalism will return after time.

"Alfred Jones." Allistor called for him.

"Yes sir?"

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen sir. But my 19th birthday's around the corner."

Allistor was happy about his answers for reasons unknown. "Have you thought of any future plans regarding your studies?"

He had none. Alfred thought he could persuade his Grampa about a career as a journalist but the idea was shot down by an invisible bullet. He never gave much thought to college because he thought after the success of his persuasion, he could start working officially for a local newspaper.

"Think Cambridge. Jones joked to me about it."

Cambridge? Studying in the same school with Arthur? Abroad? Alfred felt twinge of excitement in him. Why was that so? He should feel upset about the cruelty in that joke.

"I'll think about it sir." He gave Allistor a humorous chuckle. "Here's your room. Ring the bell if you need anything."

"Thank you, young Jones. Goodnight." Allistor choose a room while Arthur another.

"Goodnight Alfred." Arthur paused, refusing to let the words to roll off his tongue. He blushed awkwardly. "I am sorry for tonight."

Alfred felt a relief washing over him.

"Haha. You think I did be offended?"

"It's all over your face"

"Damn it."

"Whatever." Arthur did not suppress the urge to roll his eyes.

"Goodnight Arthur."

The door slammed.

 **A/N I am hungry for reviews. Please leave one. I don't mind PMs too. (Need encouragement or motivation will bid me goodbye.)**

 **Don't be shy to tell if I get the facts wrong (or bad grammar).**

 **Thank you for reading. XD**


	3. Literature Club

Alfred pecked diligently at his new Dial typewriter, enjoying the pleasant rhythm of the taps. It was Camille's present for his 19th birthday. Victor Jones did not say much about the typewriter despite how he tried to ruin Alfred's journalist career.

He was completing his scrapbook for the year. Alfred started in this particular hobby when he was fifteen, and today he was finishing yet another to be added to the three of the carefully kept collection.

Alfred had the first thought of making these scrapbooks when Camille granted him permission to the dark room. He would choose photos and articles he thought impressive or those he wrote and took himself for the school newspaper as entries.

Alfred was proud to say that he was no longer the clumsy teen who had pages stuck by paste, his new scrapbook was neat and presentable, only if his writing was too.

"Come out Jones. You have locked yourself in that room for hours." A familiar voice called out. "Mrs Jones permitted me to drag you to the dining room if I need it."

Arthur unlocked his door.

"Hey Arthur. It's hot huh?"

"Bloody hell. How can someone stay in their room in the middle of this summer heat?"

"I guess that's just me."

"You reek of sweat."

" _Do I?"_ Alfred felt the desperate need to hide his smell.

"It's the official odour of the manly gentleman."

"Good grace. I bet the ladies distance themselves from you."

Alfred followed Arthur down the staircase. The family bedrooms were on the second floor while the dining room on the first.

"Where've you disappeared to after breakfast?"

"It's not for you to know Jones. Don't be a meddling prat."

Alfred felt that he had offended Arthur some way or the other in each of their conversations.

And he had just known him for the second day!

 _Am I unpleasant to talk to or Arthur is being disagreeable?_

His conclusion was the later.

They had a hearty meal. Alfred went to the pitbull terrier's canal after that.

"Hey Ruddy boy. What do you say about a walk after lunch?"

Ruddy gave an approving bark.

"Where should we go then?" Alfred wanted to wander aimlessly on the beach like he often did. But an abrupt thought hit him.

"Oh god."

"What made you bother the Lord in the middle of the day Jones?" It was Arthur.

"I think I forgot something important."

"May I help?"

"Never mind. Just an appointment."

Arthur raised his eyebrows as slightly. Alfred noted how it was the most expressive part of his face. Those thick eyebrows were the most noticeable change on Arthur's obscure expressions as his mood goes.

"You wanna come?" Alfred invited out of politeness, he was sure that the Briton would reject.

"If you fine with it." The answer was not the one he waited, but it was too late to take back the words.

They took a short walk to Alfred's former boarding school, which he had not returned to since the end of last month. He felt queasy to come back despite the short time span, especially when his unexplained presence will not be welcomed by reprimanding teachers.

"It's a belated birthday celebration. Those guys are busy cause my birthday coincides with Independence Day."

"And you jolly well forgot about it."

Alfred winced from the guilt. "I am sorry. Are you _happy_ now?" He tried to make himself sound angry.

Arthur in turn laughed. "Why are your buttons so easy to push?"

"I will proof to you that you are not that perfect gentlemen you thought yourself to be either."

"Do I hear a challenge?"

They reached a tall gate. It was the backside of the school, and people seldom use it. When Alfred was a first grade, he deluded himself with non-existing secret missions, he imagined the back gate to be safe route from observations of imaginary enemies. But then, he had a rational mean of using it, questions from curious guards were best avoided.

"Why the bloody hell are we using the back entrance?"

Alfred evaded the question, knowing it was a protest on Arthur's part. "You don't need my help to climb, do you?"

"I'll manage."

From the top, Alfred marvelled at the agility in Arthur's small stature.

They jumped and landed on an expanse of grass. The northern border of the field was dominated by the main buildings. A weathered structure, which tinted a gross shade of brown and yellow, was awfully conspicuous from the same white pigment that painted other buildings besides it

The literature club clubroom was actually the second floor of the old library. It was a spare archive for keeping records of the school newspaper and documents-as the usual description goes. But the room was actually a nest for members literature club to goof around and spend their break between afternoon and morning classes. Besides the pretence of being an old and renowned club, the room, Alfred thought, was why the literature club was not productive those years. Francis Bonoffey, the indolent club advisor was also a great contributing factor. Dismissing Romano Vargas's submissions to the school yearbook and his long and argumentative articles, the Literature club is lifeless to the school literary world.

Alfred's efforts in the school newspaper were the only thing that helped the club from being disbanded. He made regular reports of other clubs achievements, reputation of the paper bloomed; subtle mentions of the school gossips raked popularity votes from the female students, he made sure they were all very interesting. To Alfred, he felt as if he was hitting two birds with a stone, he learnt the secret to captivate readers' heart while helping the standing of the club in the same time,

Francis welcomed his arrival with affectionate pats on both his shoulders.

"Alfie my boy. I am worried that you forgot." Francis was a man in his thirties who had fashionable long hair but never bother to shave.

Alfred heard Arthur smirk, without a doubt, for his near amnesiac.

Alfred had wanted to ask about his Article to the _Buffalo Dailies_ , but restrained for he felt it was pointless. Instead, Arthur commented from Francis's pale face and uncombed hair.

"What's up Francis? You look unhappy." A fake cheerfulness.

Alfred had a notion of the cause. It was a occasional for Francis to have his blue period from romantic affairs.

"Ha. That fool broke up with his boyfriend over some petty things again." The speaker was Romano Vargas

Francis was a homosexual, the whole campus knew, but was discreet enough not to mention about it. Only Romano dared to be that frank.

"Don't provoke him Romano. We don't want to know their disagreement in bed." Alfred teased.

"Says Alfred."

"Heartless bastards." .

"Happy belated birthday Alfred." Ignoring the Frenchman, Romano tossed him a crumpled package.

"Here's my present to you Alfie." Feliciano Vargas, the younger twin handled him a carefully wrapped gift very unlike than the older brother's.

The Vargas twins were active member of their club. Romano attended to writing while Feliciano's was responsible of art creation, designing their published work, drawing the comic section of their school newspaper. It was not Alfred alone who made the paper a success.

"Thanks guys. Can I open them?"

The sweet Feliciano said: "You will be very happy of my present Alfie."

Romano snorts.

Alfred took them as approval. He found a pair of scissors from the pile of mess on the table and cut across the artful wrapping of Feliciano. The present was flat and square, an assumption was made.

Alfred's guess hit the mark, it was a realistic piece of painting of a naked woman, she was posing on a divan, sensual mouth agape. Alfred blushed to see the details on the two spots that represented erect nipples on the women voluptuous breasts and that the fork of her velvety legs was shaved of its pubic hair.

' _I might need to hide this from ma'. Sorry, Feliciano, the painting will forever locked in a dark gloomy place.'_

"I copied that from my favourite porn book Alfie."

Alfred did not own any porn books despite his age. Romano gave him a knowing grin. The Vargas brothers were sex mad despite what everyone says about the purity in the younger Feliciano.

Romano's present was also flat and box like. Alfred guessed it to be a writing stationary. Romano was the practical type and not so creative when it came to gifts. Once again, his guess was right, it was a fountain pen.

"I say Alfred, who's the nice looking guy?" Francis referred to Arthur who was hiding behind the tall row of bookshelves, reading a random document of his choice.

"May I introduce you, Arthur Kirkland. A gentleman from the faraway Britain and now, a guest of mine."

"You got yourself a nice piece of meat didn't ya, Alfie boy?" Francis winked at Alfred.

"Don't tease him Francis," said Romano.

"What are you reading Arthur?" asked Francis.

Arthur looked up from the documents. "History. Records of the American Civil War,"

"How awfully dull of you." was Francis reply.

"Do you like history? Our Romano loves history." Feliciano pestered Arthur while looking at the new face with contrasting apprehension.

Romano was indeed the most knowledgeable of their literature club. He had firm grasp on languages-modern or old-and history including various facts of past events unknown to even their teachers.

"Sorry to disappoint you Feliciano. But our gentleman had his head full with politics." Alfred patted on Feliciano's head gently as to comfort his coming disappointment.

Arthur was passive to the mention or the gesture of Alfred maternal instinct.

Feliciano said: "Don't worry. My brother is very interested in that too recently."

"Really?" Alfred asked.

"Oh yes. He worries very much about Spain's reaction to the Italian Fascism. He talks to me about it for the whole day. I don't understand and I think maybe you can help."

Arthur looked at Romano appraisingly.

"Huh? What's gotten into you Romano?" asked Francis.

"Hush." Romano warned. He was feeling paranoid of the reveal, profanity aimed at Feliciano muttered under his breath.

"It's because of Antonio. You like him, don't you?" Feliciano was oblivious to the warning.

"Ooo who's Antonio?" Francis sounded like a gossiping teenage girl.

"Hey Francis, where's my present?" Alfred altered the topic forcefully to help Romano out of the situation even though he wanted to know as much as Francis did.

"I baked you a cake."

"Thanks man!"

"Fancy camera you got there. Birthday present?" Francis was the first to notice the new Kodakchrome that hung limply on his shoulders. It was habitual for Alfred to hang on his old LeicaⅢwith a strap but neither of the Vargas twins noticed the difference of this new camera.

"It's from Grampa."

"Damn. I hate the rich brats."

* * *

"Thank you..Grampa." Alfred's voice was without the adequate gratitude but the stutter was a sure sign of nervousness.

He was confused. Why did his Grampa give him a camera? Was there a conspiration behind this, an elaborate script written by his Grampa perhaps?

But somehow, the birthday present lighted to a fire of confidence in Alfred's heart. His Grampa's objection might not be that grim.

' _He was just testing me.'_

For that moment he felt a grain of hope.

He should ask for the permission. It was pathetic for him to hide what was known. After all, there's nothing to gain if one was too much of a coward to try.

"Grampa. I probably should have told you this." He started nervously.

"Told me what?" There was nothing to be relayed from Victor's tone. Alfred cannot deduct if he was to continue.

"I'm sure that you had known this-" he felt like all the energy had left his body, his mouth failed to move.

He took a deep breath.

' _Damn it all'_

"Come on, I am not going to wait all day," Victor Jones was urging him to go on.

"Grampa. I want to be a journalist." He finally said it, congratulating himself for being loud and clear, emphasising every last word. Now if he could look straight into his Grampa's eyes for further effect.

"I don't want to be a politician."

The blue eyes locked. Through his glasses, Alfred could see his own reflection from Victor's dulling blue.

He felt if he had just asked to be disowned.

Victor Jones's face was passive. No confirmation was given.

Alfred had rolled the dice, he could only wait for whichever side Victor chooses to land.

* * *

"Hey Romano. How do you describe a moody person?" It was norm to ask Romano for question like these. He was a walking dictionary and they treat him likewise, mostly, with the intention of annoying him rather than being tripped by an unfamiliar word.

Alfred especially had the nerve to bombard him with random inquiries.

Romano proposed: "Bipolar, mercurial, volatile, temperamental, emotional, sensitive, capricious."

"What about Arthur Kirkland?" Alfred suggested in impertinence.

"Don't put my name on the list, you twit." Arthur's red face was a clear indication of alcohol intoxication.

"Francis, did you spike the punch?" Alfred had realized where to put the queer taste of the drink offered by their club advisor.

"This old man had no clue whatever you were talking about." Francis feigned ignorance.

Romano accused: "Don't bluff, it explains why we are getting so whoozy."

"Ha. Can't handle a little drink. You youngsters are useless."

"Arthur. You 'kay?" Alfred dreaded, Arthur had given signs of wanting to pass out.

"Don't fret." Arthur's voice slurred alarmingly.

"Better for you to lie down." Alfred proceeded to clear the mound of books and paper, an assemblage of their customary negligent to neatness. He found the Vargas twins' porn books among other more respectable novels and documents.

Arthur dropped down the couch. "Messy fools." He cursed their wonted mess without a word of thanks.

"Hey Arthur. Can I ask you something?"

"Sure. But I don't think I am in the mood of answering." Alfred massaged his temples with his forefingers. Alfred assumed he must have a bad alcohol tolerance.

Who will know if the Frenchman mixed tequila in the drinks?

"So? What do you want to ask?"

"I don't know."

Arthur looked him incredulously.

"That's vague."

"Well, you know that my Grampa had my future all planned out."

"Yeah. Knowing Victor Jones, he will."

"And that he want me to be an influential man like him."

"He was once the mighty senator after all. Rumour has it, your father is close to a promotion."

"Is he?"

"You're a daft."

"So, do you think I shouldn't resist to have shit planned about me? I don't want to follow their steps."

"If you reject what's given, you're not the first, but I can say many regret it later."

"I did rather regret that than giving up my dream. I hate being born elite."

"Many envy your birth. It's a pity to throw the chances away."

"I have never thought of that."

"You are ignorant, a sheltered moron."

"But that doesn't mean I can't do what I wish." Alfred felt the need to justify himself. Arthur's brutality stung, but he accepted it. He needed to accept the pain of _truth_.

"How extraordinarily selfish of you. But you have a point."

"I want to be a journalist. Not some political figurehead."

Arthur did not reply. Alfred assumed that he did not know how to for their outlook on it was incompatible, even conflicting.

Why was he looking for conciliation from someone with mismatched opinions?

"Life is a fickle thing, making us miserable as it wishes," stated Arthur.

Arthur's personification of life told Alfred that he was unhappy of his life too.

' _Why should he be?'_

To phrase Arthur's attitude, he was a snob who gets angry as he wished, capable of toppling everyone's emotional scale from relief to anxiety with the weight of his ever-changing moods.

With that fiery spirit, how could he find anything in life that didn't please him? Even the problems would surrender under his temper. Or the cause of his tantrum was because he found life disagreeable?

But Arthur's advice was not finished. "Don't give up. Don't let life control you. You will win eventually."

Alfred sensed the genuinity, uncontaminated of lies.

He felt like hugging him for the support but the body stood rigid.

' _What a stupid idea. He's probably drunk to say that.'_

"You sound like a poet."

"I like poetry."

* * *

"Grampa, you are being unreasonable. How could you just ship me off?" Alfred was close to tearing up in the intensity of the argument.

"You are being unreasonable. I am sending for your education. You need to be thankful." Victor Jones tone sent a biting chill to Alfred's spine. He did not recognize and would not admit the man was the affectionate Grampa he knew.

Victor Jones had invited Alfred to his personal library after dinner. Alfred had braced himself for this audience, he was sure that his Grampa would acknowledge his will after how he expressed them.

Victor Jones told Alfred that he was to leave the next day, on a ship to England with Allistor Kirkland and his nephew. He would be under the supervision of Count Allistor Kirkland in England, and live in his manor as a guest for the time being until his school term start.

As following the cruel joke, Alfred would be attending Cambridge, the same school as Arthur. Victor reminded Alfred to familiarize himself in new the land during the months between his arrival to the time he starts his schooling and that he would stay in England for the minimum of three years.

It was over. His dreams were dashed.

"Arthur did you know?"

Arthur shrugged, he was standing outside when Alfred left the room.

"Eavesdropping is not something an English gentleman will do." In contrast to the joke, his tone was humourless.

"I think you did better listen to Mr. Jones."

"He has no right to control my life."

"Do you have a better plan win old Jones over?"

"That's a convenient way to blame me on this."

"Cambridge has good teachers. Maybe they have courses about swaying a retired senator's heart. Then you can try confronting him again.

"Don't mock me you bastard."

The cloud of despair was brooding over Alfred's head. The mockery was a further hurt to his situation. He would leave Buffalo, leaving his friends, his mother, the dog, he would even miss Victor who was responsible for this. He love this town and its people.

What would his colleague from the metal factory think? He promised the kids to bring them sailing. He promised to entertain the old folks with his saxophone.

Alfred decided to visit the poorer districts before he was gone. He was a hero to them, someone to be adored, he felt more comfortable to mingle with poorer class rather than befriending elites, and though sceptical at first, they accepted him as one of them.

A thought made him ashamed. He had the notion of seeking comfort by helping them.

' _Again'_

There was always a vague line between selfless help and one with a motive. Maybe being selfless was just a stupid delusion.

"Alfred. I did not ask you to give up being a journalist." Arthur said the most unexpected of things. "We had great courses in Cambridge, you know, it is not all politics there. And I think the literature club will be more than happy to receive a new member."

Alfred felt a hope flaring, the forlorn road of his future seemed as bright as ever. In the contrary, he could defy Victor's wishes and couldn't be stopped because he was three thousands mile away, safe from the area Victor's jurisdiction. He was sure Allistor carried the role of keeping an eye on him, but it was hundred times better than the old man himself, after all, they were strangers who met a few days ago, not even blood related.

The defiance would be a sweet revenge indeed.

"Arthur, how can you be a bastard at one moment while being the person who cheer me up at another?"

"Told ya that your buttons are east to push. Don't give up. If you have the talent, even your Grampa can't stop you."

"Thanks Arthur. You're an amazing bastard."

 **A/N: Wow. I think I'll die from exhaustion if I update with this pace. XC**

 **Much apologies from me for taking the freedom of portraying these characters. Expect me to toy more with them in the future. *Laughs maliciously**


	4. Season

"Alfred!"

"Mom! Alfred's here."

"Alfred, where's our gift?"

"Don't be rude."

It was his familiar rowdy welcome, but this time he was bringing the unfortunate news of his leave. Who knows when he was to see them again?

"Bloody hell. How popular are ya?"

Arthur followed, crushed among the crowd who tried to reach Alfred, which was why he didn't want to bring Englishman along.

* * *

Arthur insisted: "Who knows if you plan to miss the ship? I am not going to be blamed for that."

He was surprised to see Alfred leaving his house with a huge load, a rough looking luggage bag and black leather case. Inside the luggage bag, Alfred had packed farewell gifts, mostly being toys he promised the children, as for the other case was his for his prized saxophone.

"Wait. A saxophone?"

"They love to hear me play."

"I'll be back for a minute." Arthur walked towards the portico in hurried strides.

"Why?"

"I am bringing my violin."

"Why do you need it for?"

"What music are you playing? I am going to accompany you."

"Jazz. Don't bother, it's hard for a beginner to follow."

"Don't worry, I play for the music halls occasionally. In fact I prefer jazz to classics."

Alfred whistled. "Good choice."

"Thanks."

Arthur had a self-contented smile plastered on his face, Alfred smirked and said: "I bet English Jazz is a watered down version of the American's."

"You'll regret that insult."

* * *

Arthur's violin case opened with a snap, Arthur took his instrument out, its shiny polish glimmered, reflecting filtered sun rays in the alley. Alfred watched, mesmerized, as the Englishman hold the fiddle with careful hands and rested the violin between the space of his weak chin and small shoulder. The whole procedure was carried out with grace, the delicate handling was a sign of professionalism.

Alfred asked: "Are you ready?"

"More than ever."

They hadn't agreed on a song, but this was jazz, they will make up a tune up as they go. Alfred leaded with a slow rhythm, though the lethargic pace, he covered his music with complicated composition of congenial notes, it was meant to impress Arthur.

The crowd swayed with the merry tune.

Surprisingly, Arthur's jazz was the total opposite of his attitude, they were affable to Alfred's tune. He produced high pitched sounds from his violin, ranging from a brief tugs to elongated ones, the melodious tunes produced by the tension of strings and fiddle enriched the concoction of jolly music.

Someone from the crowd joined in, a flute, an accordion and a guitar was heard, a Negro man tapped at empty barrels, setting rhythms in enthusiasm beats.

The crowd flung their hands up in slow dances.

When they were finding an agreeable end to the song, Arthur quickens their sluggish pace. Tired children, wispy sounds of the flute, the old accordionist's hands, the resounding of hollow barrels, Alfred's lung capacity, they all failed to keep up.

* * *

 **Summer 1935**

 **London**

"Damn Arthur. That's crazy!"

Arthur's Jazz was as fast as ever. Alfred liked these occasional sessions with him but the Englishman's haste was unforgiving torture. Once or twice, he managed to enter a state of where he could automatically react with the speedy music but today was not one of those days.

"Lemme have a rest." Alfred said with bated breath.

"I agree to meet Alice today. She won't complain if I arrived early."

"You're leaving? What about our jamming session?"

"Pick up a book if you're bored."

Alice Reincourt was Arthur's girlfriend. According to him, she was a shallow socialite but very good looking girl from a respectable family. He had an agreement with her to act like a couple to satisfy the ever brooding dilemma with parents when their child failed to bring a good partner home.

Alfred did not feel like reading. "Do you know where to buy saxophone reeds?" His reeds were handmade, he forgot to pack spare reeds when they left America and the only left was almost unusable.

He doubted that canes can grow in England, the only option left was to buy one.

"I can show you the way," said Arthur.

"What bout' miss Reincourt?"

"Alice asked me to bring you along. I guess you'll refuse so I didn't ask about it."

"Did she really? No, I did love to." Alfred had wanted a chance to meet the pretty lady as to confirm Arthur's description.

Considering he was a foreign guest and all, he was sure that he would be summoned one day.

English ladies were said to be refined and discreet, but female guest of the Count Kirkland household, young ladies from respectable families had casted Alfred, intrigued looks. They flirted with him, bolder girls played with his glasses, listening to his tales with their utmost attention.

The flood of guests in the count's house was a sure sign of Social Season in London, contrary to the belief that such practices was deteriorating after the Great War. Alfred wondered if the house should be busier if he came a few decades ago, when Social Season was at its peak.

Most of Alfred's American female friends acted casual around him, some even flirted. They acted that way towards almost everybody else, so he took none of those advances seriously, but Alfred didn't caught any of the lady guests flirting with Arthur. Dylan Kirkland, his cousin had an unapproachable air and of course, Allistor was unavailable.

Alfred had his harem alone to himself. He was glad to be American.

On his way to the chosen rendezvous point, Alfred rehearsed a conversation in his mind, preparing himself with answers so he would not be tongue tied in front of the gorgeous beauty.

He had a boatload of experience of what English ladies would ask from noting the guests' inquiries. Their favourite topic was about the land they heard occasionally but had never been to, how to dress, what to eat, how well the American's movies resemble the real US.

The ladies especially loved listening about parties, volleyball and tennis matches, yacht sailing, or any of these sporty pastimes that gave an attracting flavour to the country's free spirits. Alfred was unable to give much of an account to them as he seldom partied or join his elite friends even he was invited. He finished his tales fast, much to everybody's dismay, and settled to hear the female guests' who ranted on about English tea parties.

Alfred thought he would enjoy an English party more than those of his hometown even though he could hear the insipid tone of those who describe them.

Arthur reminded: "Trust me. Alice Reincourt is a stale choice for a woman, no matter how her beauty says otherwise."

"Arthur, I am not you. I don't judge people by their wit." Alfred bit at the irony of his words, he wanted a brainy Mrs Right, but he was enchanted by the trained beauty of those English ladies. No doubt they were educated, it's that he was more attracted to their refined air and delicate faces.

Alfred felt that he was becoming a hypocrite.

"She had _the_ monotone speech process. They stay at tea parties. And that is the last thing in the world we need to hear about," said Arthur.

"That's actually great. It's the thing that makes her British." Alfred put his two hands into his cashmere coat, legs spread, posing a stance of confidence. "How do I look?"

"Get a mirror." Arthur rolled his eyes.

* * *

Alice was true to her description, fair skin and a face free of freckles, her stature was petite and slim, but there was no look of fragility in the small body for they were strengthened with her unique air of aristocracy that also served to enhance her beauty.

"Hi Arthur dear." Alice's voice had a nice sounding chime around the high edges. "And you must be Alfred Jones," she said coyly.

"Pleasure to meet you Lady Reincourt." Alfred turned on the charm in smile, which had great reception among the lady guests.

Alfred sensed Arthur's frown and thought to use Alice with the purpose of annoying him. He would always end up second they fought verbally, and now he had the chance to proof otherwise if the nice lady agreed to cooperate.

"So Alfred. What do you think of England so far?" Elizabeth was in the initiative. It was going smoother than he thought.

The two chatted merrily, Alfred listen to how Elizabeth describe her tea parties with vividness. She noted herself for being both a great host or guest, hiding not her sense of superiority for being a lady from an aristocratic family.

"So you guys are not afraid of holding these charities every month?"

"Of course. My father is a rich man and he does not like to be called stingy."

"Maybe he had a thing for the poor besides reputation."

"He don't. I never knew any man better than I know him Alfred." Alice sounded depressed, taking in Alfred's sympathetic smile.

But it was not long after she recovered her cheerfulness. "Soon, I will dump my father when I marry a nice rich foreign man. Oooh doesn't that sounds like someone? Do you want me to know you more Alfred? Better than father?"

Alice giggled suggestively.

Alfred joined in with her light chortle.

He was really becoming a hypocrite. Alfred's father was not better than Alice's.

"I have talked for my part and you had told me about your impression of England. What's next? Shall we shift our attention to a farther country?"

"And where would that be my lady?"

"I want you to entertain me with tales of America if that will please you, my dear gentleman."

Alfred told her about parties he attended, which were all hosted by the Vargas brothers, through it he delved into more personal subject of his friends, the literature club. Touchy topics of Francis's sexuality and the Vargas brother's perversions were even smoothed upon. He had felt a connection with Alice for they had similar fathers.

Arthur led his two companions to the border of London's East End, Gardiner's Corner, a five way junction known as Gateway to the East.

"Alice do you mind?" Alice came from a good family, it was inappropriate for her to wander to the East End where the docks and slums were focussed at.

"I see why not? I would like to visit here but no gentleman dared to ask." She gave a happy wink, her excitement palpable.

Alfred said: "We're sorry and thank you my sweet lady." If he had a hat, he would tip it in gratitude of her open heartedness.

"What are you two gentleman playing at?"

"Hush hush. It's confidential," joked Alfred.

"Shut up Alfred." Arthur had never been so unhappy to be ignored for the whole journey and would do with a few words of profanity if not for Alice. "He wanted to buy some mouthpiece for his bloody saxophone."

"How did it break?" Alice had a misunderstanding.

"Reeds decline in a period of time. We need to replace them occasionally."

"I thought they are a permanent thing." Alice was a little embraced by her shallow understanding.

"Now you know." Alfred smiled at her sweetly. He liked Alice for being a decent girl, she was actually a normal person under her proud lineage.

Alice returned the smile. "Most interesting. Do you play _the_ jazz, like Arthur?"

"Well, I exceed at it miss Reincourt. Come to hear us play at the music hall, if you had time."

Before Alice could ask which, Arthur broke his silence. "Don't be a prick. You are not a good player."

"Not everyone has your high standards dear." Alice defended with a mocking tone.

"Don't cajole me. He can barely keep up."

Alfred pointed out: "That's because you're using your hands while I need my breath."

"That's not what I mean. You thought playing a handful of complicated notes is considered skillful, I can tell you your arrangements lack order."

"Man. It's not that bad," said Alfred

"Your music is boisterous, trust me."

"That tells us how well they are, true jazz reflects the person's personality. You can't judge their arrangement like people do with Beethoven."

Alice clapped, she was laughing with tears wetting her closely pressed eyelids. The grace she was raised to uphold was gone without a trace, but she still looked beautiful with the cheery guffaws. "It is fun to men squabble like married couple."

"Why the metaphor?" Alfred face reddened, he must have felt ashamed to act unlike a gentleman in front of the charming lady. Arthur shared the same shyness.

She tutted with her girlish voice. "What's the matter? I am sorry that I've interrupted. Please continue."

"We did better head to the shop," said Arthur.

"Sure…Led on."

"Mr Sagal has good workmanship. His restoration of my violin left me no place for complaint."

"Fancy that."

"If you jest. I am taking back my word."

"Come on our Artie is a big hearted gentleman, isn't he?"

"Once more with that smug look Jones, I'm not paying."

"Why do you relapse into calling me Jones when you feel angry? Even my mom doesn't do that."

Arthur's face showed a flash of red. Alfred decided to leave his question he should not use his surname anytime sooner.

Alice Reincourt was flirting with the young clerk and they can wander without worrying about occupying her. The shop was modest when looked at from outside, but the interior was filled with rare instruments, the high quality wood and brass.

"The violins are the best here."

"Don't tell me I can find a Stradivari."

"Don't be a prick."

"Why is there such store in a Jewish district?"

"You are insulting Jo...Alfred."

"Right. Back to my first name. Don't worry I get it. _Don't be rude_."

"Exactly. Thank you."

"Hey Arthur."

"What?"

"What should I do about the invitation? I don't play Jazz at a music hall."

 **A/N: Sorry for leaving the story to rot. The lack of enthusiasm is killing me. Also, thank you for the reviews.**

 **There are little going on in the first few(?)chapters. Nothing to compensate for my poor execution. :(** **Well, anybody who knows about Gardiner's Corner probably predicted some action. ;D**

 **Alice Reincourt is my version of fem England/Iggiko. Yeah, she's the spazzy type.**


	5. Ballroom Dancing

"Your arms are out of place." Arthur fixed Alfred hands downwards before checking his footwork. So far so good.

But then, he noticed the slightly wrong angle of Alfred's head and twisted to the correct position without giving so much of a signal.

"Ouch!" Alfred exclaimed. "Tell me and I'll tilt the damn head myself."

"You never follow the instructions right anyway. It will be a waste of breath."

"Why do we need to be so precise?"

"I'm doing you a favour here. Shut up and learn."

"This is hard."

"You're the one who came out with those bloody lies. Yeah, you impressed her. But you're in this shit now. You took it upon yourself."

Alfred grumbled, there was no fault to Arthur's reasoning. He was responsible for lying about knowing how to dance to Alice Reincourt, and now, he had little time to turn those lies into reality.

Turning back to five days, Alfred managed to convince the owner of a music hall to let him play his saxophone for the night. The owner accepted, most to Arthur being a constant replacement for the violent player who had no least reasons to be absent.

Alice Reincourt arrived to see their show which ended soon as a comedian had her turn on the stage. Alice invited them-the charming gentlemen as she put it-to the bar.

She sipped at her _very good_ port and lemon-a Portuguese fortified wine mixed with lemon juice, a popular drink of the bar while asking: "What do the big boys like?"

"I'll have a beer. You Arthur?"

"I'll have fruit juice," replied Arthur.

"Don't be shy Arthur. At least order something manly." Alfred jeered at the order. The barman nodded and said: "The usual kid?"

"You drink juice. At a bar. Every time?" A slip of the tongue. Alfred did not think that it was hilarious anyway, but he laughed at the joke to cover the mistake, feeling he was acting obnoxious. He might need to apologize later.

"Do you dance?" Alice asked out of the blue. The inquiry might be inspired by a oil painting hanging on the wall which depicted three couples were posing for a waltz.

"I do. Everyone do, don't they? Turn on the radio and set off the beat." Alfred winked. Arthur rolled his eyes, Alfred thought, that had become a habit of his in response to his advances on the girlfriend in name. Well, Arthur did say he had no feelings on Alice whatsoever.

"I see. Show me." Alice said anticipating for an American dance.

Taking the chance, Alfred did a dance he learnt from the Vargas brothers, he taped at the ground with a quick beat and swayed as taught. There was no music accompanying the dance so he felt that he did not do his best, the movements were reserved and stoic.

Alice, being herself, clapped and threw in her flattery nonetheless. Alfred bowed and apologized for the bad performance, his glasses fell from their place in the process. If Alice took him to be a clown for it, it could not be helped, he thought, wishing an opportunity for revival.

"Not at all. Not at all." Alice laughed as she said that, she did not see Alfred adjusting his displaced glasses and she was genuinely entertained. "Do you do ballroom dancing too?"

"Yes of course."

Alfred realized that he had just dug his own grave.

Alice Reincourt invited him to a last dance of the Season, a party which was held in the ballroom of her house. Out of politeness, she asked Arthur as well.

"If we are still doing that farce of being a couple, such invitations are unavoidable," said Arthur, his tone businesslike and cold.

"Perfect," said Alice.

' _I'm doomed.'_ Thought Alfred.

' _He's doomed.'_ Thought Arthur.

If Alice stayed, or at least peep, she would not miss a comical situation that had unravelled at the bar later, with her absence, the tipsy Alfred went down his knees. Though it was the beer who told him to give up his dignity, but dignity itself was the reason he beg.

"Arthur. Help me." Alfred voice slurred at the request, the helplessness and pathetic tone brought a surge of victory to Arthur. He had outdone his patience listening to Alfred's slander, as he had joked on his account to woo Alice. Revenge spelled out at him but not entirely in the way he would liked it.

"Get up you twit." Arthur looked around the bar, the customers were too occupied to stare-which he later thanked the alcohol in work-but the men working behind it were staring at them curiously. Arthur felt a danger to Alfred's and most importantly, his dignity.

"I know you can help." Alfred would not stop begging if he did not get a 'yes' out of Arthur's mouth.

"Right. Get the hell up before I change my mind."

That had worked. Arthur officially became Alfred's dancing coach.

But Alfred was a worse student than he had thought.

"Pretend that you are the frame."

"I'm the frame. Okay."

"And she's the picture."

"She's the what?" Alfred had hard time learning, so he tried to induce some interest, or at least to illuminate him through the introduction of metaphors. It was a livelier way to teach too, at least that was what the books said.

"I don't get your metaphors." The problem was Alfred was too busy with controlling his steps than to think more.

"Damn Americans." Arthur considered using something that Alfred understood more for the comparison, but an American's train of thought was too different from a British's.

"Look. You're the frame, and she's the picture. So you do your best to display her, to show her off. You take the lead and she follows." Arthur explained.

Alfred asked: "Like a car and the passenger?"

"Like an automobile and the passenger." It worked, Alfred came to an understanding himself.

"But she's not here. And I'm dancing with a stick on my hands. How would that help?"

"Oh shush it. It's only the Waltz. Why do you even have a hard time learning it?"

"This slow pace is killing me. Look how we need to lift our legs and stuff. I don't feel like gliding. I feel like my legs are like some damn spring. Up and down. Up and down."

Arthur buried his face in shame for the lack of competent on Alfred's part, the Waltz was the basic among basic, and he managed to master it when he was ten, under his uncle's coaching. Despite the man he was, Allistor was functioning properly as a sociable upper class aristocratic and was a good dancer.

"My hands are tired," complained Alfred.

Arthur had received no least protest in a few days. He should know better before picking up the responsibility.

"Okay. No more sticks." Arthur took the stick away from Alfred.

"Thank goodness. I love you man." In every practice, Alfred needed to keep a balance on a stick, otherwise, Arthur would jab him at the back.

Alfred's hands were sore after consecutive hours of handling it, for if he moved them or if they were not levelled, the stick would fall on the ground, another jab received. Alfred found it hard to unhinge his stiff elbows too as they were folded for the long hours of dance lessons.

The stick was heavy, Arthur was unforgiving, he hated ballroom dancing. If not for Alice…

"You take me." Arthur announced, waiting for the shock.

"What?" Alfred was surprised indeed, but there was an unexpected blush on his face. "But you. I mean…you? You? Arthur Kirkland? Me and you?" His words came out in a jumble, repetitive inquiries to emphasis his need of confirmation.

"What. You're not happy with me? Say hello to uncle stick then." Arthur retorted with the same flush on his cheeks. At least the words are easier to comprehend, thought Arthur.

Both men did not know that they were thinking the same thing at that precise moment. _'Damn. That's cute.'_

Both cursed themselves for letting the thought in.

' _It must be the tiring lessons.'_ Thought Arthur.

' _It must be the tiring lessons.'_ Thought Alfred.

"Put your arms on my shoulder. Like this." The calmer Arthur was the first one who reacted from the trance. He took Alfred's right hand carefully and held them to his back, both were trembling. Although, a barricade of fabric guarded his back, Arthur felt the hair on his back raising at the touch, it was tickling. Arthur stifled a laughter.

"Don't laugh jerk. You're making me nervous." That was what Alfred said, but he was laughing too.

The tension melted, they could get use of the intimation shared. The two men could feel the radiating body heat as Arthur pushed further into the embrace, a requirement for the dance.

Alfred imagined himself to feel Alice in the same way, what if he forgot his steps then? There would be only one answer: Practice, as Arthur said before ending their lessons. Despite the poor progression shown, he had adhered to the advice, doing secret revisions that he would not admit, filling the guest bedroom he accommodated with tap-tapping sounds. Alfred had the footwork down, Arthur marked that, but he was afraid to steal a stick, preferably, a light broom from the faraway kitchen, a long journey increased the chance of getting caught. So, he excelled only in the footwork.

For the sake of pride, he kept the practice a secret from Arthur; for the sake of pride, they kept the lessons a secret from the household. The only dared to go on with this in the night, in the spacious living room where nobody bothered to come down when it was dark. They were forced to get use of the dim light, the room lit by a moon, which Arthur was thankful of for hiding Alfred's scowling face in the shadows, it had not occurred to him that Alfred thought the same too.

"The first step. Remember the first step is the most important," said Arthur.

Alfred started forward hesitatingly, he put his dominating foot to the front, dragging his body that was lagging behind. "Like this?"

Arthur lifted both hands up as a sign of surrender. "No. No. How many times we practiced that. No hesitating."

"But no one the last time. It is different with a person. I feel like pushing you."

"Then push me. The ladies liked to be lead."

"Gosh this is weird."

"Get your damn feet forward."

Alfred listened this time, letting his own body to take over, letting the monotonous secret practices to bear their fruit.

Now or never, thought Alfred as he lifted his foot.

"How's that?" Alfred stared down at his shorter partner.

"Nice."

"And?"

"Just nice."

Before Alfred could protest for the lack of appreciation for the footwork he had practiced so hard for, The light of the living room was flipped on.

Noticing the presence of someone, Alfred whispered: "Play dead."

Arthur had an instant understanding of the tactic, a typical plan of Alfred, and thought it was ridiculous. He had to comply anyhow, he had no better idea.

Allistor Kirkland voice rang: "What are you doing?" The count look as intimidating as his red hair suggested.

"Mister Kirkland. Arthur had fainted. Call for the doctor or something."

"Don't be daft. I heard you guys talking seconds ago."

"That was..." Alfred brilliant plan was smashed into bits.

"Alfred. Arthur. You're not pansies are you?" The question came up blunt, Arthur who faked to faint pushed the other man away.

"No. Definitely not." Arthur claimed, blushing.

"I knew Cambridge was a bad influence. The…twelve to one ratio? I knew you would one day be a pansy with the lack of female students." Allistor gestures was wild with shock, he ran through his hair looking for consolation there.

"No. Uncle. This is a misunderstanding." For all of Arthur's training in politics, the hasty denial was only thing he came up with.

"I know you're putting up an act with Miss Reincourt. But never prepared to face this." Allistor was drunk on his unlimited supply of scotch in the basement the afternoon before. Then, he woke up in a daze and walked up his living room to see his nephew and the guest in tight embrace.

Everyone would land on _that_ particular possibility wouldn't they? Allistor's notorious analysing abilities ought to cloud after a hangover.

Alfred knew the practice of homosexuality was not uncommon in boarding schools that had more male students than its female counterpart, still it was surprising to be brought up the topic.

' _Is Arthur gay?'_

He dismissed the ridiculous notion thinking how easily he was affected by the flow of the situation.

It was Alfred's turn to defend, he need to clarify things well: "No sir. Arthur here was just kindly teaching me how to dance. We had an invitation to miss Reincourt's party you see."

"Why didn't I think of that?" Allistor shock was dampened by the rational explanation. He let a breath out in relief, laughing himself for being silly. "Sorry boys, I'm getting a bit crazy with that amount of socializing these days, Glad that the Season will end soon."

* * *

A grand party was celebrated to signify the end of the social season, luxurious decoration of the white ballroom was an appropriate preparation for the last sprint of events. Golden chandeliers hung low on the ceiling, magnifying the majestic feel of the ballroom, silky tapestries dangled lazily, creating a feeling of royalty with their vibrant colours. Varieties of food and drinks dotted the table, Alfred ignored them all. #

He was there for the _princess_.

"Give her a good ride even though you're the lousiest truck I had ever rode." Arthur teased with good humour, sending his student off.

"Thanks. Any good luck charm for me? Some hints perhaps."

"Go man." Arthur knuckles reached Alfred's chest, a very American way to wish him, though half heartedly. He was shy to do it with vigour like the _buddies_ in the US film did, the sentiments count if Alfred could just feel them.

"Thanks Arthur." Alfred acknowledged the gesture with a gentle hit on the chest of his. "Thanks my friend."

Arthur was left to ponder the word: friend. Alfred was the first who had called him that. Not now, but six years ago, the event when they first formed an alliance on the crag, a silly childhood story to accompany it too.

' _Do you need to say the same line over again? Thank you.'_

What had he thought Alfred to be since they renewed their meeting at the crag? A mere annoying and disastrously forgetful acquaintance and that definition continued until then. Did he remembered the line or he recited it unconsciously?

The definitions of friends are always vague. Arthur had never categorized people in these ways before Alfred barged into his life, he only had the group of: family, ally, enemies and strangers and those between for people around him. Alfred was the first to raise the alien category of 'friends' and he was the first who requested to be entered into that group.

He had let him then.

Would Arthur let him now?

* * *

It turned out that the prize of the day, Alice Reincourt was sick with measles and would not recover anytime soon. Alfred went home, heartbroken after a soothing meal of delicious deserts on the table.

"Hey Alfred."

"What Arthur. You want to make a sensational story out of my upsetting night in that head of yours? Feel free to do so. "

"Shall we dance?"

Silent ensued. Arthur reached out his hand.

"Sure. That would cheer miserable me." Alfred replied after knowing it was a sincere invitation. "No waltz." He gave a condition.

"Sure. What we do?"

"Rumba. Jolly old rumba." Alfred made that choice purely because he hated the slow movements of waltz and needed a workout after the frustration built.

"You know how to do rumba?"

"Course not. But you're a good teacher."

"I wonder if you know what do the rumba is."

"A party dance originated from our neighbouring Cuba? Sounds fun."

"It's the dance of love you moron." Arthur felt himself smirk as he said that. He saw the blood that was creeping on Alfred's pale face. Unlike the lessons, the living room was fully lit this time, no privacy given for the good lightning.

Alfred suggested bashfully: "Maybe. We forget this and get to bed. That sounds good, doesn't it?"

Arthur was not going to let go of him this easily, it was Alfred who made the order after all, why let him lie in his miserable bed thinking his miserable failure with the equally miserable Alice. He was obliged to cheer his friend up.

Arthur walked up to his friend until he could smell the distinct smell of cologne he wore. "Rumba is a horizontal expression of love." Arthur turned Alfred to his back and reached for the region under his arm from behind. Alfred moved, but he halted him with his other hand, pressing the one on his underarms persistently, he glided it on Alfred's new cardigan suit. "You need to touch the partner's skin as if your life depends on it." Now Arthur was just taking liberties of making fun of Alfred in the pretence of friendship. Did he sound malicious? Hope not.

"Why so touchy?" Alfred winced as Arthur demonstrated the touch on him, feeling ticklish as the hand ran down to his hips.

"Ar…thur…S…top…P…lea…se." The syllables were mixed with bursts of laughter. The plea in it had the opposite effect on Arthur, a sadistic sense from the teasing awakened unbeknownst to him.

Arthur freed his hand.

"Thank goodness Arth…"

Then you let go. Like the partner had ruined your life." Arthur grabbed Alfred's wrist and held him close before flinging him sideways, it was never easy as Alfred was much heavier than him. He made his stand sturdy before he could be flung together with the momentum. "

"Okay. Great then you dump me? Let's go to bed."

Arthur picked up at the other man forcefully. "And then, You hold the partner back again."

"What's the poi…"

Arthur pushed Alfred downwards before he could finish. "Finally, you _dump_ her like you're finished."

Alfred fell to the ground.

The two men were painting from exhaustion at their attempts, one resisted, one forced.

They kept wondering how awkward this situation would be if Allistor caught them.

"Gosh. The dance of love is rough." Alfred managed to mutter after he realized that was the end of the torment.

* * *

 **A/N: I do not dance. I'm clueless of this whole theme before I did the research. I apologize if there is any mistake.**


End file.
